


Reeling Through The Dark

by theblindtorpedo



Series: Trans!Man Fiddleford/Stanley Fics [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sad Ending, Sexual Content, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling." - Philippians 2:12</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reeling Through The Dark

He’s ready to yell at whoever is outside. Why are they here? The sign he hastily made should be impossible to miss. Usually Stan would jump at the chance to snag the attention and wallet of whatever rube approached the shack, but he had given himself the day off, woken that morning to the familiar clawing hopelessness. He had barely dragged himself to eat two pieces of bread and had been sitting in the armchair for the past hour, weighed down by a numbness that had nothing to do with the cold outside. Now he threw an arm over his face, scowling into his elbow at the hard footfalls on the porch. _Go away._

He did not expect for his visitor to have a key.

A man stumbled in from the hallway, slight body trembling excessively. He tripped over the threshold, staggering to catch himself against the wall, nails making a sharp scraping sound against the wallpaper. His eyes were squeezed shut behind off-kilter glasses, not registering that there was someone else in the room. Stan was too stunned to react. Or perhaps he was too devoid of motivation, what did it matter. There was nothing this stranger could do to him that could make his life worse. There was an alien energy to the other man’s fumbling about the room, a break in the midst of the house’s muted atmosphere, but Stan did not appreciate it. The man’s aura screamed both danger and despair. A burning smell followed him, mixed with the stench of alcohol, the amalgam abhorrent. Stan watched with glazed eyes, until the other man looked up, bright blues locking onto Stan’s own bloodshot brown.

“You’re not Stanford,” he whispered.

“How’d you get in here?” Stan countered, voice gruff and heavy.

The keys were thrown at his head, but he caught them. Staring down he saw the inscription on the tag: FIDDLEFORD MCGUCKET. The grooves were the same as those on the set he had found sitting next to the toaster, undoubtedly the same meant for unlocking the Shack’s doors.

“Who are you?” Stan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Fiddleford. I’m Fiddleford.”

“Yeah, I can read, thanks. I mean, why are you here? What do you want from me? How do you know my brother?” Stan’s voice was rising, louder, angrier.

“I-don’t-know-I-don’t-know. I don't KNOW!” The man, no, Fiddleford had sunk down to sit on the floor, cradling his head in his hands as he wailed. The whole sight was pathetic.

And suddenly it was as if Stan were not in his own body, instead watching himself from the outside. He could see the scene before him: a brute of a man, unshaven, longhaired and wild, bearing down, cornering a smaller, weaker one against the wall. He dropped down to Fiddleford's level, his shadow sliding off the other man as if chased by an even darker spirit.

“I’m sorry.”

Fiddleford doesn’t answer. Stan didn’t expect him to. They sat across from each other in silence, until Stan held out the keys in reconciliation.

“You can have these. I got things to do, but if you need to, uh, rest for a bit you can. Just stay out of my way.”

When he came back from his shower Fiddleford was gone.

 

The next time he found Fiddleford sitting on the porch. The man seemed more lucid, at least his hair was neatly brushed and clothes not stained. He had a grim mouth pressed to templed hands as he stared off into the forest.

“You came back,” Stan said.

Fiddleford looked at him with fear that morphed into surprise and then settled into resignation. Stan noticed deep bags under his eyes.

“You’re not Stanford.”

“You’ve told me that already.”

“Oh, did I?” a sigh, and a hand run through russet hair, “I must have forgotten.”

“It was two days ago.”

“I do apologize. I’m not in my right mind these days.”

“Kinda noticed.”

Fiddleford flinched and Stan felt a stab of remorse. He sat down on the step.

“It’s all right you know. I’m not in the best shape myself if I’m gonna be honest. Not since . . . not since Stanford left.”

Fiddleford laughed bitterly. “I’m not surprised.”

Then he stood abruptly, turning his head to look through the doorway, where the vending machine was visible over the entrance to the basement.

“I have to go.”

“Where?” Stan did not notice the slight desperate tone in his voice, but Fiddleford did and it pained him. All the more reason to leave now.

“Home.” The word came out slowly, as if he were unsure of its meaning. “Home,” he repeated.

“You should come back. I don’t get to talk to people that much.”

“If you like.”

 

He did come back, the next week, but he was drunk again. Stan could see it in the unfocused look in his eye and swaying as he silently slid into the chair at the kitchen table.

“I was gonna eat dinner, but I don’t have anything for you,” Stan said as he set his small plate of two eggs in front of the empty chair, before sitting himself.

Fiddleford was stoic as he stared at the meager plate.

“You should eat more.”

“Look who’s talkin’.” Stan gestured at Fiddleford’s own spindly frame and the other man crossed his arms defensively. Stan scooped up a bite of egg and held it out, but Fiddleford shook his head. So Stan popped it into his mouth, and ate slowly as the other man watched.

He left the plate on the table once finished.

“I’m just gonna go watch TV. You can come if you want.”

Fiddleford followed to the TV room, observing Stan fluff up the cushions and sit in the same chair he’d first seen him in.

“You can pull up one of those.” He pointed at the wooden chair stacked against the wall. Fiddleford’s eyes flicked back and forth, before rejecting the offered chair, instead choosing to walk up so he stood right in front of Stan.

“You’re gonna be blocking the show,” Stan said, reaching for the remote, but the action was halted before he could grasp it. One of Fiddleford’s hands wrapped around his wrist and suddenly the other was on his face. They were warm fingertips stained with a tenderness he had not felt in years.

The kiss was all pressure; Fiddleford’s hands tugging and pulling at his cheeks, gasping for contact that Stan was powerless not to give. It had been too long since he had been shown such affection. Some part of him recognized this for what it truly was, a farce of intimacy chased by two men drowning of thirst. Stan could taste desperation and whisky. And he felt as if he was drinking it off Fiddleford’s tongue, his head clouding as Fiddleford climbed into his lap and Stan’s arms came to encircle the smaller man.

In the end there was no finesse to it, all rushed hands and heavy breathing. Quickly clothes were discarded and Fiddleford was bare before him, a hand between his own legs rubbing against his entrance already self lubricated with arousal. It was not what Stan expected, but in the grand scheme of their short relationship this was the least confusing thing about the other man. This at least he understood.

“Touch me please.”

Stan did, running hands up and down Fiddleford’s side as the younger man moved to sink down upon his member. Fiddleford made a harsh stuttering sound that sounded more like pain than pleasure, but still he placed his hands on Stan’s shoulders and began to roll his hips of his own volition. Stan reached down to rub at the small nub buried beneath the light down of pubic hair. Fiddleford keened, burying his face against Stan’s neck.

They moved for what felt like an eternity. In life neither of them found happiness quickly, and it seemed in sex they were similarly doomed.

Stan threw his head back as he came, Fiddleford already having collapsed against his chest. He stared up at the wooden ceiling, a thought crawling into his brain.

“We didn’t use any protection.”

“I’m not going to have a baby.”

“Why?”

“I’m a man.”

“Oh, right.” And Stan didn’t understand, but he trusted what Fiddleford said. And this revelation was itself more shocking that the act that had just transpired. Stan did not trust easily, a life on the streets had beat that out of him. Yet, he had spent barely three hours total with this other man and he accepted him at his word.

“I promise it won’t happen,” Fiddleford said.

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

Stan felt a sudden dampness, different from the cooling sweat on his own skin and fluids that seeped from Fiddleford’s sex. He looked down at his chest. Fiddleford was crying.

“Thank you for believing me.”

 

This is how it transpired. Fiddleford visited every few days. They exchanged vague small talk while Stan performed a chore, a meal, finished a TV show. And inevitably they had sex.

Sometimes Fiddleford was coherent, these were the best times, almost normal. Then would be sensitive smiles and kind kisses. They did it face to face so they could see matching ectascy as Fiddleford wrapped his legs tighter, taking Stan deeper and clenching his walls so Stan saw stars. Sometimes Fiddleford was sad and then he would not look at Stan, but his hands still insisted, pleaded to laid on his stomach so he could moan into a pillow with each thrust from above. Sometimes Fiddleford was angry, at what Stan did not know, but he felt the tension as he was pulled against Fiddleford’s back and heard the order to “make love to me.” Fiddleford always said that: “make love,” as if the words could somehow purify them.

Stan fucked him against the wall if he asked, but he felt hollow afterwards. He pretended not to notice the increasing cuts and bruises on Fiddleford’s skin, but he went out and bought an advanced first aid kid, brand new. Ford’s ample medical supplies gathered dust on the shelves. Stan handed the box to Fiddleford without explanation. The engineer rolled the Neosporin in his hand, before picking up the gauze and alcohol. He continued through the box, each item examined with tantalizing slowness.

“Oh, Stanley, this is very kind a ya.”

Fiddleford smiled.

“Don’t worry yerself, I’m safe. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Stan felt his gut drop.

 

He could see it, the deterioration. Fiddleford’s clear days were less frequent. It became harder for the engineer to hold a conversation; splintered thoughts and sudden fits of shaking anxiety antagonized him. Stan tried to hold him then, but Fiddleford backed away in fear. One time he called him Stanford and Stan felt as if he had been bludgeoned by a truck.

The worst was that he knew there was nothing he could do. Just like Ford, he was losing someone else, except this time the reminder of his loss was a living, breathing human being. Fiddleford was falling away and Stan could not save him.

He tried to make him happy. He saved up his summer earnings in a small tin that he hid under the bed, acutely aware of it as he lay on his back, with Fiddleford riding him in a way that set his hips thudding against the mattress.

In September, he counted the money. It was enough. When Fiddleford arrived that day, Stan was standing with the door to the Stanleymobile ajar.

“Get in, I’m taking you somewhere special.”

Absolute terror erupted in Fiddleford’s face, and then the other man was shaking his head violently back and forth.

“Whatd’ya mean no? Come on, Fidds, baby. I’ve been planning this all summer. You’ll like it.”

“In town?” Fiddleford squeaked.

“Of course! Well, I wanted it to be a surprise, but I booked up a spot for two at the fanciest restaurant in town. You know the one that always smells like warm bread. It’ll be good for you, for us-” He was pleading now as Fiddleford was backing away.

“Ah-ah can’t go out there. Not in the t-town, they don’t, I can’t, no-nono-“

Fiddleford bolted.

Stan ran after him. He wore out his shoes searching that night, down dark streets and even darker forest. He did not find him. The next day the Murder Hut was closed for business.

 

Fiddleford came back three days later. He was still wearing the same clothes. Stan said nothing about the restaurant. Neither did Fiddleford.

Soon the smaller man was laid naked on the bed, Stan hovering over all concern.

“Can I do something different?”

“If ya like.” Fiddleford stared at the ceiling.

And so Stan bent, laying a kiss at Fiddleford’s collarbone, descending slowly, feeling the soft gasps and tremors as he licked and sucked. Fiddleford was wet by the time he reached his center, hot and heavy and gaping. Tongue stroked and gave, and Fiddleford cried out, causing the bony chest to spasm.

“Are ya sure ya don’t want me ta take care of ya?”

“No. I’m doing this for you.” Stan was firm. Fiddleford sighed in submission

Stan was achingly gentle, he did not dare go too fast as he mouthed at Fiddleford’s folds. Still, Fiddleford shook and trembled. Eventually, Stan felt a tug at his hair.

“I'm done, darlin’.” Fiddleford sounded weary.

“Are you sure? When you come its usually a bit more obvious.”

“I'm sure.”

Stan frowned and moved upward to look in Fiddleford’s face.

“Did, did you enjoy that?”

“Yes.”

“Don't be like that," he whined, "You know I just wanna make you happy.”

Fiddleford covered his face with his hands and turned away. Stan could still taste Fiddleford's sweetness on his lips, but in that moment he thought he might vomit.

“Ya do make me happy.”

Stan fell asleep curled around that stiff frame, toxic doubt swimming through his system.

 

The next day Fiddleford came to him. He was sweeping the main room, when he was caught. Fiddleford’s arms wound around him from behind, turning him. The broom clattered to the floor, as Fiddleford sunk to his knees.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m going ta make ya happy, Stanley.”

This was not right at all. “Is this about yesterday?” A hand at his belt, nimbly unlocking it. A hand in his pants, coaxing him to hardness. “You don’t need to feel like you have to give me the same. I wanted to do that, for you-”

“Shhh.”

“Fidds, please, ah!”

Hot friction, so warm. Sweet suction. Stan clamped a hand to his mouth. His knees buckled, but Fiddleford had a hand up supporting him, while the other was wrapped around the base of Stan’s cock. The other man continued his ministrations, changing to licking up Stan’s shaft before suckling hard at the head. Stan felt his muscles tensing in pleasure. He brought a hand down against Fiddleford’s cheek, eliciting a moan from the smaller man.

“God, I love you.”

Fiddleford’s jaw froze, eyes glancing upwards, and Stan noticed the gleam of tears at the corners.

“Shit, are you okay? Don’t hurt yourself for me. Stop. You can stop-“

He was silenced by another hard suck. He was lost to Fiddleford's singular determination to bring him to climax. Several minutes later and Stan finally came with a shout. Fiddleford stood, one hand still milking him through the aftershocks, the other caressing the side of his heated face.

“Did that make ya happy?”

Stan grinned. “What’d it sound like?”

The corners of Fiddleford’s mouth twitched upwards, but his eyes maintained their now constant melancholy. “Ya deserve ta be happy too. I’ve realized I’m not much a anythin', but I’m glad I could do tha' for ya.”

He helped Stan tuck himself back in, and then he kissed him. No passion, just the delight of broken lips pressed together. Stan felt his heart race.

Then Fiddleford straightened his tie and made to leave.

“Wait, baby, where are you going?”

“I don’ want ta be a nuisance.”

“You’re not. You’re the best thing I ever had since I came to this god damned hick town.”

“That’s a sorry thing ta say. But, honestly, I gotta go.”

“Do you have to?”

“I do. Goodybe. Take care a yerself.”

He departed then, and Stan felt his absence following him around the house for the rest of the day. He talked to the mirror that night as he got dressed for bed. It was not the same.

“Wish you were here, Fidds,” he murmured as he slipped into the empty bed.

Fiddleford never came back.

**Author's Note:**

> I cried writing this, so I'm sorry.
> 
> Rates and reviews mean so much to me, please leave some if you can. Thanks for reading.


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